


The Night Country

by Destina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-16
Updated: 2006-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the demon exacts revenge on the Winchesters, Dean and Sam deal with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Country

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in October 2006. Gen AU, beginning during Devil's Trap in season one. Thanks to elynross and mandysbitch for fantastic beta on this story. Thanks also to Barkley and Killa, without whom I wouldn’t have even tried to write this; their ongoing support and encouragement made all the difference.

At first, there were two voices rising slowly over each other, similarly deep and urgent, and Dean wasn't sure how to pick them apart, which to follow. He listened, pushed forward on a slow wave of pain, until the voices separated and became distinct. 

"Dean, oh, God, no. Listen to me! That's not Dad! It's not him!"

Sam's voice, far away, but there was something closer. 

"You always wanted to be closer to your father, didn't you, Dean? You always wanted him to love you more. Well, he loves you. Let me show you how much." 

Dean recognized that voice, the deep growl, the soft approval in it. The sound of it was so close, too close to be a voice at all. It was inside his head...

...it was inside him. 

He could feel his hands again, aching, maybe broken; they were bloody, and they were on the floor, close enough that he could see them curled and clenched in front of his face when he opened his eyes. He pushed up from the ground, tried to fight, but his father's hands - _not Dad, it's the demon, the demon_ \-- closed over them, pushed them flat to the ground and held them there. He stared at the scar across his father's thumb, the place where a phantom cat's claw had struck him and pulled the gun from his hand. No gun now, nothing but brute strength and oh, Jesus Christ, the thing possessing his father was on top of him and now he knew, now he could feel it inside him, not just its voice but...Oh, Christ. 

"Dean! DEAN!" 

Sammy again. Dean gritted his teeth and ground out a low moan. He wanted to shout: _don't look, close your eyes, don't see this._

Too late. 

Blood coated his tongue, warm copper on his lips. He lifted his head and spat, and the demon's hand moved then, sliding up through his hair and pushing his head back down, hard. "Now you can be his favorite," the voice said in his ear with a soft chuckle, and then a grunt, so obscene that Dean drew in a breath. 

Nausea hit then, but he'd be goddamned if he'd puke now. Not the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Not by a fucking long shot. 

"Beg, Dean," the soft low voice said in his ear. "Beg him to stop. He can hear you." A vicious twist of the hips, for emphasis. When Dean choked out a curse, the thing said, "He can _feel you_." 

Dean looked down and realized his hand was free. 

He pushed up, pushed back, and his elbow connected sharply with skin and bone. He grinned, but it didn't last. Pain tore out from his chest, something ripping inside him. Sam's voice rose on the crest of that pain, a shouted plea. "Dean, oh, God, please, stop fighting it, it's going to kill you. Dean! Dean, listen to me. Oh, God!" 

When Sam's voice broke, something inside Dean gave way, and he stopped struggling. 

"Dean," the voice rasped in his ear, and then a soft chuckle. "You trying to take all the fun out of it? Don't you think Sammy's enjoying the show? Don't you want to make it _good for him_?" 

The image of Sam's horrified face flashed through Dean's mind; the taste of bile burned the back of his throat. He couldn't think about that now -- not if he wanted to get through this with his sanity. 

He could feel his father's heartbeat raging against the bare skin of his back like a drum, keeping insistent double-time with every breach of his body, and his own pulse hammering against his skin in answer. 

_Not your fault, Dad. My fault. I should have known._

His throat closed on the word he'd been trying to say, keeping it safe. _Dad._ His father couldn't help him now, and he hoped John was as far away as he could go, retreated down deep where the demon couldn't make him feel it anymore. At least then one of them wouldn't have to remember. 

Teeth latched onto the back of his neck, biting deep. Rising panic renewed the fight in him, but he was pinned so tightly that he could only shout in pain, eyes screwed shut. The thrusts became violent, angry, the bites followed by a warm tongue smoothing over his skin, and the sound in the back of his throat was involuntary. 

_He'll taste the iron in your blood._

The demon stopped moving, and everything stilled. Dean turned his face down, pressing it against the floor boards as the soft exhale of breath across his neck made him shiver. 

"I think we're done here," the demon said, and then the pressure was gone; the weight of his father's body lifted from him, and he fell to the floor, shaking. For a moment the world went black. 

When he opened his eyes, there was nothing but the soft sound of someone crying. _Sammy._ Panic overwhelmed him; _please, not Sam._ He tried to roll over, get to his feet to help him, but Sam said, "It's gone, Dean, just stay still." 

Dean opened his mouth to reassure, to tell Sam to pull it together, but no words came out. Only a soft gasp, and then a sob, and fuck it, he was not going to cry, he'd had worse, it was pain he could live with, he was not going to fucking cry. 

Sam knelt beside him and Dean flinched away, not able to look at Sam's face. Not yet. He rolled onto his back, reached down and pulled up his jeans, hissing. Sam made a sympathetic noise, but made no move to help him. "The Colt," Dean rasped, easing down his torn shirt. 

"The demon took it," Sam said. "I couldn't stop it, I tried, I -- _Dean._ " His voice cracked on Dean's name. Dean took a couple of deep breaths, trying to make the world stop spinning. He had to get centered, find some focus. 

"It's not your fault, Sam," he said, voice low. His left hand was on fire, so he used his right to zip his fly and lever himself up. The moment he was upright, pain spread through his body, centered on his ass. "I'm okay," he said, through gritted teeth, meaning...He didn't know what the fuck he meant, but he wasn't dead and Sam wasn't dead and even...their father...wasn't dead and anything else, he could live with. 

"We have to get moving. It could come back," Sam said urgently. He got to one knee, then reached out toward Dean, slowly, the need to move thrumming off him in waves. Dean nodded; Sam looped his arm under Dean's and hauled him to his feet. Dean looked up at Sam's tear-streaked face and swallowed hard. 

"It's not coming back," he said, unsure how he knew, but he was sure; they'd see it again, but not now. It thought it had broken him. Them. He'd be goddamned if he'd let that be true. _Think, Dean._ "It probably took the car." 

_It._

The word should have made distance between him and that thing, but it wasn't an it; the thing was his father, and it had-it-- 

"Dean," Sam said, and his hand came to rest on the back of Dean's neck, covering painful wounds. "Come on." 

He wanted to say _I can't walk,_ but he could, and he wanted to say _this isn't happening,_ but it already had, so he moved. One step, then another one, and Sam's hand stayed right where it was. 

 

***

 

The interior of the Impala smelled like fresh blood. Sam's stomach turned over because it was Dean's blood, not their shared injuries after some hunt, not something they could laugh about. He spared a moment to be grateful the demon hadn't bothered to take the car; it was the only break they'd had in this mess. 

He jammed his foot down on the gas and pushed the car as hard as it would go. Dean was quiet in the seat next to him, twisted sideways, half-laying across the car, his head not quite on Sam's shoulder. He'd made a sound when Sam gently helped him in, a sound Sam would have called a whimper if it were anyone but Dean. 

He reached out to roll down the window, regardless of the rain, and Dean stirred next to him. Sam looked down at Dean's face, at his open eyes and pale skin, and said, "I already know you don't want --"

"No hospital," Dean said. "Just...find a place to stop. Anywhere."

Sam's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. It was Dean's body, but Sam was never going to be able to get the horror of what he's seen out of his head, never. All the muscles in his throat, his neck, his shoulders were strained; he'd pulled so hard to loosen the invisible grip holding him to the wall that he'd torn something, he was sure of it, but it didn't _matter_ , because Dean had been sprawled on the floor like a broken toy while that demon _took its time._ Sam could feel the hate eating through him, one burning spark at a time. 

He wiped tears out of his eyes and scanned the road ahead. Two billboards, one for a diner and the second for a motel two miles east. He pulled the wheel hard and followed the faded arrow left, down a dark dirt road a tiny motor inn. 

The woman at the desk looked like she'd been shaken out of a deep sleep, hair all frizzed to one side and the lines from her pillow engraved on her face. She handed Sam the key without comment, averting her eyes from the blood all over his jacket and shirt. 

He parked in front of the room and unlocked the door, then took in everything he thought they might need, weapons and clothes and supplies and two bottles of tequila Dean thought Sam didn't know about, and then he went back for Dean. 

This time, Dean wouldn't let him touch, just shrank away and slid out of the front seat, wobbling toward the open door. No bad jokes, no faint smile, nothing but a bloody shell. Dean stopped just inside the door and tore his shirt off over his head, then flung it away. Deep, livid scratches everywhere, bruises all over his back, and those bites, Jesus Christ, it looked like...what it was. 

Sam slammed the car door shut and followed Dean inside. He closed and locked the door and picked up a box of salt, studiously ignoring Dean as he shed his belt, his boots...but not his jeans. Sam squashed the impulse to go to him and help; instead, he poured thick lines of salt in front of the door and windows. 

Dean slammed the bathroom door, and the next moment, the shower turned on. 

Sam's knees went out from under him and he crashed to the floor. With one hand over his face, he bit his lip, willing himself not to cry. 

It seemed to take forever, but he yanked himself back from the brink. He could hear Dean's voice in his head, mocking him: _Damn, Sammy, it wasn't you that had the Deliverance experience._ But there was no humor in it. Not now. 

He looked at the box of salt on the floor where he'd dropped it. He got to his feet, picked up the salt, then knocked on the bathroom door. "Dean? I'm sorry, man, but if there's a window in there, I've got to salt it." He didn't bother to say what Dean already knew in his blood and bones: _we can't take any chances now._

No answer, just the water running. Fear passed over Sam in cold waves, and he reached out for the handle, but then Dean's faint voice emerged: "Whatever." 

Sam turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly; a cloud of steam billowed over him. When it cleared, he saw the shower curtain closed, obscuring Dean. To his left, the sink; to the right, a high window. He salted the sill as best he could, salt trickling down onto the tiles below, and then he turned, leaving the door open. Dean's bag was on the floor where Sam had left it, and he burrowed in, pulling out the softest clothes he could find, and Dean's shaving kit with all his personal shit inside. He took them back to the bathroom and set them on the closed toilet lid, then picked up Dean's bloody jeans and underwear without actually looking at them. He withdrew, closing the door. 

He needed a shower himself, and now he was clammy with damp, but it didn't matter. He shucked off his clothes quickly, changing into the first thing he could find that didn't need washing, and made coffee. He turned down the beds and switched on the TV. There was something comforting and normal about the chattering heads on the screen. 

Slowly, he folded Dean's clothes into a tiny ball and stuffed them into the corner of his own duffel. 

The bathroom door cracked open and more steam emerged. Dean was in its midst, with his hair sticking up in all directions, sweatpants on, tee-shirt in his hand. He passed Sam, giving him a brief smile, chilling in its lack of sincerity. It took him three tries to sit down on the bed farthest from the window, and his grimace of pain was more eloquent than the half-hearted attempt at a smile. 

"You're going to have to clean these bites so they don't get infected," Dean said, matter-of-fact. "I can't reach them."

Sam flashed briefly on the other injuries, other things just as likely to bleed and become infected, but Dean wasn't going to be willing to hear it, he already knew. 

"Coffee or tequila?" Sam asked. Dean turned and gave him a look that clearly said _tequila, asshole._ A smile ghosted over Sam's face. He popped open the bottle and poured half a glass for Dean, handing it to him without comment. 

"Thanks." Dean tossed the entire thing back. Sam handed him the bottle. 

Sam fished for the antibacterial ointment, peroxide, and band-aids, digging them out of the giant bag of miscellaneous useful crap they carried everywhere. When he turned back to Dean, a third of the tequila was gone, and the bottle was back on the nightstand. Dean's good hand was clenched in the bedspread, and his head was down. Something about that posture disturbed Sam on a level so deep he couldn't put words to it. 

Sam's phone rang, startling them both. "Sorry," Sam said, though he had no idea why, and he dove for his jacket, fishing the phone out of the pocket. He glanced down at the screen and drew in his breath sharply. 

Without taking his eyes off Dean, he flipped open the phone, but said nothing. On the other end, his father's voice, quiet, full of gravel. "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and watched Dean's expression transform before his eyes, wary fear overtaking it. 

"Thank God. Sam, is Dean all right?"

Sam clutched the phone hard enough to hear the plastic crack. _"What do you think?"_

"Sammy, please...Your brother..." A long silence, and then Sam realized with horror that his father - if it really was his father, and not some fucked-up head game the demon was playing - was crying. "It wasn't me, Sam." 

Sam's jaw tightened, and he looked down at the floor, and then at the salted lines at the window and door. He said nothing. 

"Sammy. Where are you? I'm...I'm not sure where I am, but I'll come to you. Just tell me where you are. I have to know your brother's okay." 

All the hair on Sam's neck stood up. When he met Dean's eyes, Dean stood up. 

Sam flipped the phone closed and tossed it on the bed, where it lay innocuous, quiet. Dean went pale and turned wildly, snagged the tiny plastic trashcan from under the night table and bent over it. Everything left in his stomach came up in seconds, and with it the revolting smell of tequila and sour bile. Sam went to Dean and stood beside him, helpless in his urge to do something. 

Dean set the can down on the table and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Then he sat back down and looked up at Sam with a granite-hard expression. "The bites, Sam," he said, and Sam nodded, because it was all he could do. 

He looked at the vast expanse of bed behind Dean, and then at Dean. "I'm...I'll have to..."

Dean gestured impatiently. Sam glanced at the desk chair, thought about how hard its thin seat was. Not an option. 

It was awkward as hell to crawl onto the bed behind Dean, who was sitting so close to the edge he might as well be sitting on air, but Sam did it as gently as he could. Dean's back was a lean whipcord of knotted muscle, striped with claw marks, dotted with livid bruises and those hideous bites. Sam dumped his armful of supplies on the bed; they rolled down the spread to rest by Dean's hip. He started at the top, near Dean's neck; his brother's skin smelled like cheap hotel soap. "Was the water pressure high enough to really clean these?" he asked softly. 

Dean didn't answer, which was answer enough. Nothing Sam could do about it short of dragging Dean to a hospital, so he sloshed some peroxide on a cotton ball and touched it, light as a feather, to Dean's skin. Dean didn't make a sound, not even a hiss of pain; his body was rigid. Quickly as he could, Sam moved from bite to bite, applying peroxide and antibiotic ointment, and covering them gently with two band-aids apiece. 

He couldn't help counting; there were seven, each as vicious and angry as the last. 

A sudden flash of his father's face, his rare broad grin, and Sam tilted his head to look up at the ceiling, gathering in blank white space to crush every other image. The goddamned tears were back, but he was getting better at ignoring them now. 

When he'd finished, he said, "You really should take some antibiotics."

"In my bag," Dean said, drawing his tee-shirt over his head. 

Sam found the pills in a plastic bag, ten of them, big and pink. "There's not enough here for a full course," he said, wondering where Dean got them and how long he'd had them, and what injury prompted him to pick them up. Dad would probably know. 

Sam winced and handed Dean one of the pills, which Dean swallowed with a swig of tequila. Sam reached for the trashcan, but Dean said, "Leave it," which meant _don't fucking nurse me._ Sam grabbed the bottle of tequila instead and drank down a nice long swallow. 

"Let me see your left hand," he said, putting the bottle down. For a second Dean looked like he was going to protest, lips shaped around a no. "Don't," Sam said sharply, and Dean glanced up at him long enough to get the full picture. He looked away, but he held out the hand the demon had stepped on. Sam put his open palm and spread fingers beneath Dean's shaking hand and said, "I can't tell if anything is broken this way."

"Well, let me help you out. The answer is yes." 

Sam looked closely; Dean's pinkie was crooked. All he needed was a pencil, and he could set and splint it. The pencil was easy; there was one in his backpack. He found tape in the junk bag. 

"Phone," Dean said, as Sam snapped the pencil. 

"What?" Sam glanced back at the phone on the bed, but it was quiet. 

"Give me the phone." Dean turned his hand over, resting the back of his fingers against Sam's. Sam picked it up from the bed, but didn't hand it to Dean, who looked up at him, frowning. "Today?" 

Their father didn't have his cell; Meg had taken it, had called them on it. Sam placed the phone in Dean's hand. Dean dialed, then let Sam have his hand, let him set and splint and wrap to his heart's content, and it did make Sam feel better, even if Dean was suffering it for his sake. 

"Bobby, it's Dean." Sam let go of Dean's hand, moved to sit on the bed opposite him. "Has my father been there?" Whatever Bobby answered, the muscle in Dean's jaw twitched in response. "No. We're coming to you. I need you to call me if--" He broke off and turned his face away from Sam. "Yeah." He closed the phone and tossed it to Sam. 

"I don't know, Dean. Do you think that's wise?" Sam asked softly. He opened the phone, turned it off, and set it on the nightstand. 

"Probably not," Dean said. He had the tequila again, was drinking straight from the bottle, long deep swallows that must have burned right down to the bottom of his stomach. Self-medication at its finest. 

"Are you..." Sam hesitated. It sounded so stupid, to be asking such mundane questions, as if everything were normal. He swallowed, then tried again. "You want something to eat? I can run back down to the diner..." 

Dean's head shot up, and the momentary fear in his eyes was enough to kill any thoughts Sam had about leaving. "Not hungry," Dean said. 

"Why don't you try to get some sleep?" 

"Why don't you?" Dean shot back. 

Sam sat forward, clasped his hands between his knees. "I'm not tired." The door at his back was like a shape in his peripheral vision, something hovering just out of range. 

Dean searched his face, which Sam kept carefully neutral, and took another long swallow of tequila. Half the bottle gone, now. He slammed it back down on the table. Carefully, slowly, he eased himself up on the bed and settled his head down on the pillow. The bruises on his face stood out stark and angry against the white pillowcase. He closed his eyes, lashes dark against pale skin. 

Heavy fatigue settled on Sam's shoulders, but he stood up and faced the door. The place was laced with so much salt the floor was crunchy, but it didn't calm the low-grade skittery feeling of anxiety crawling over Sam's skin. He poured himself a cup of coffee and left it black; diluting the effects of the caffeine wasn't such a hot idea. 

They were a few hours from Bobby's place. Sam was pretty sure he could make it there without killing them both, even if he didn't get any sleep. Once they were there, he could let Bobby take over, and he could close his eyes. Just for a while. 

The second bed was too close to the window, but there was no way to go moving furniture around without disturbing Dean, so Sam sat down and drank his coffee, and tried to think about what was ahead. Dean was going to do what Dean did - not talk, not admit he was in pain, pretend it was something he could live with. 

It had taken the better part of a year for Sam to realize that there were a lot of things Dean didn't cope with well, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise, and Sam was sure this was going to be one of them. 

He forced himself to concentrate on the warm cup in his hands, the droning of the TV, blocking out images and sounds he didn't want to hear, couldn't stand to think about. 

_Belt buckle opening; zipper being pulled down; Dean, motionless on the floor, and the demon touching him, smiling over Dean's shoulder at Sam. The shape of his brother's name, pulled sideways by terror Sam had never felt before._

He glanced over at Dean and saw Dean was watching him. They looked at one another for a long moment before Dean rolled onto his back with excruciating caution, then to his other side, putting his back to Sam. 

Sam took a deep breath and set the coffee down. From the bag by the door, he fished out the sawed-off shotgun and a supply of extra cartridges. He moved from the bed to the chair, facing the door, coffee in one hand, the comforting weight of the shotgun in his lap. 

Eventually he turned the TV off and listened to Dean's soft, reassuring snores. 

In the morning, he set the gun on the chair and took a three-minute shower, enough to wash Dean's blood off him, clean his own cuts and scratches with a quick swipe of soap, and rinse his hair. All the while he was thinking of the road ahead, of persuading Dean to give him the keys. His stomach growled loud enough to be heard three counties away; he felt like he hadn't seen a plate of food in a week. 

He frowned. It seemed petty, thinking about his own damn oversized appetite when it was the least important thing happening here. 

Dawn was beginning to glimmer outside, putting a weak thread of light through the cracks in the curtains, when Sam sat down on the bed beside Dean and laid a hand gently on his elbow. Dean's face was relaxed in sleep, but the bruises had deepened, and he looked like he had taken the beating of his life. "Dean." 

Dean's eyes flew open and he gasped, pushing up from the bed. Instinct made Sam remove his hand fast. Dean turned to him, wild-eyed, and slowly the fight left him, until he was fully awake. "Sam," he said, and he relaxed back into the bed. 

"We should get going," Sam told him, running his hand through his wet hair so he wouldn't be tempted to do anything stupid like touch Dean with it. 

"Did you sleep at all?" Dean asked, and there was too much sharp assessment in the way he was looking at Sam. 

"No," Sam said. "You know why." He paused, then asked, "Did you...get any rest?"

"Sort of," Dean said, that muscle twitching in his jaw again. He looked like he was held together with band-aids and string, ready to fly apart any second. Sam didn't press. 

Just then Sam's stomach decided to announce itself loudly, and amazingly, the glimmer of a smile moved into Dean's eyes, reflected in the tiny quirk of his lips. "Guess we need to get you some breakfast," he said, and Sam smiled. 

"You, too."

It was a good plan in theory, but in reality, the smell of eggs, toast, and bacon stopped Dean like a brick wall, and he skidded to a stop beside Sam in the gravel parking lot. "Go get something," Dean said, waving Sam on, already retreating to the Impala, sunglasses firmly in place like a mask.

Sam stood in the parking lot, watching him go; he took a step toward Dean, then stopped and looked back at the diner. 

Five minutes later, he climbed into the driver's seat, chewing the last bite of his third glazed donut. He handed Dean a cup of coffee, which Dean accepted without comment. 

Dean never asked him for the keys, never said he wanted to drive. He slid down in the seat and looked out the window as they hit the road and the miles piled on. 

**

By the time they pulled into the driveway of Bobby's junkyard, Dean had to piss like a racehorse. Too much tequila-water racing through his veins. He was desperate to get out of the car and away from mother hen Sam, whose watchful gaze on him was making him fucking insane. 

At least Sam had the good sense not to try to talk to him about it. For that much, Dean was grateful. 

The moment he saw Bobby's face, his stomach cramped; sorrow was written all over Bobby's face, and Dean knew what it meant. He looked at Sam, who met his eyes and nodded, and they got out of the car as Bobby approached them. 

"Welcome back, boys," he said quietly. 

"He called you, didn't he?" Sam's voice was flat. 

Bobby nodded. He held the door open. "Why don't you boys come in and get settled? You both look like forty miles of rough road."

The room was still a mess from the confrontation with Meg: broken shelves, books scattered everywhere. Dean was sure he must have some remnants from that day on his body, but other aches had overshadowed them. He walked further into the house, looked up at the ceiling; the devil's trap seemed to loom over the entire room. 

Bobby drew up beside him and held something out - a silver flask of whiskey. Dean's stomach rumbled in protest at the idea of it, and he shook his head. "Got to use your bathroom," he said, glancing up once again at the symbols on the ceiling, and then he moved away, as fast as he could without actually running. 

Once he'd locked the bathroom door behind him, he took a deep breath and released it, slow and shaky. All the sensations from the previous night's dreams were back with him, and he was inside a box, suffocating; all the air was gone. The heavy, stifling sense of it clung to him, choking all the oxygen from his lungs. 

When he glanced at his reflection in the mirror, all he could see was his father's face. 

He lifted the lid on the toilet and pissed what seemed like half a gallon, swaying unsteadily. Creepy little jags of memory were pecking at him, bits and pieces floating in that darkness between the moment the demon had smashed his face into the floor, and the moment he woke up with it on top of him. 

Dean snorted. Nice, how he'd already started with the euphemisms. Better than thinking about how a demon had fucked him up the ass while wearing his father like a costume. 

_John wants to see you happy, Dean. It feels to me like you're happy now._

Sam was hovering outside the door when he opened it, which is what Dean expected. Sam was going to be hovering forever, or the portion of forever that fell between now and the moment Dean cracked his first real joke. He tried to muster one up, but still nothing. 

"Dean, I'm..." He pointed back over his shoulder. "Bobby's going to hang out and keep watch, and I'm going to catch a little shut-eye. Are you-"

"Yes, Sam, I'm okay," Dean ground out, biting it off. At the look on Sam's face, he pressed his lips together and ducked his head. "Sorry, man."

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Sam said quietly. He hesitated, then turned and went down the hall without another word. 

Dean carefully pulled his jacket off, one arm at a time. Too heavy, and it was scratching at his back in the wrong way. He threw it over a dining room chair and went into the living room to face Bobby. 

He wished to hell he could find a way to sit down gracefully, but it wasn't working. He avoided Bobby's intense, kind stare as he settled on the couch. "So what did he say?" he asked, without preamble. 

"A hell of a lot," Bobby said. "Wanted to know if you were here. I told him no, and I told him to stay the hell away, or I would finish what I started with that shotgun last time I saw him."

Dean's throat closed, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. When his voice came back, and he was sure he could speak steadily, he said, "It wasn't him, Bobby. I know that." 

"Not that it makes what happened any easier," Bobby said, and Dean nodded, avoiding his eyes. "Listen, Dean. Let's face facts for a minute, here. You understand that you can't trust anything he says to you right now. Maybe not for a long time."

"Because I can't be sure it's really him," Dean said. The bites on his back were throbbing, and his heart felt like it might pound right out of his chest. 

"Exactly." A pause, and then: "Dean, I'm sorry as hell this has happened to you."

"Forget it," Dean said. He set his jaw in a hard, firm line. "I'm doing my best to."

"Sure you are," Bobby said. 

The room seemed to be getting smaller by the moment. By Dean's feet, a shadow passed, and he jerked his leg out of the way. "Careful," Bobby said. "That's Cheney."

"That's...what?" Dean looked down, and the nose of a black Labrador puppy poked out next to his boot. 

"Some watchdog," Bobby snorted. "He's no Rumsfeld." 

Dean reached down and scratched behind the puppy's ears. "Maybe he's better off inside," he said. After a moment, he asked. "What can you do to keep my father away from us?"

"Keeping in mind, of course, that the thing inside your dad ain't your dad," Bobby said, and took a sip of whiskey, "there are things I can do to make sure he can't touch you. Dangerous things, maybe painful - for you, I mean. But once it's done, it can't be undone. At least, not by me. You understand?"

Dean leaned forward, rubbed the puppy's snout, the patch of fur between its ears. His eyes were stinging. "Can you make sure he can't touch Sam?"

"If that's what Sam wants." 

"It's what _I_ want." 

"Dean, it can just take another form anytime it wants. It probably already has. If I use this incantation to stop your father -"

"It wouldn't possess someone else to do this," Dean said. "It wants to break my family apart." He pulled his hand away from the puppy, ignoring its whimper of protest. "It's my responsibility to make sure it can't." 

"All right, then." Bobby patted his hands on his knees twice and looked around the room. "There are a couple of grimoires we can-"

"Bobby." Dean saw the tone of his voice catch Bobby mid-movement, stop him cold. "You need to make sure I can't hurt Sam, either." 

"Oh, Jesus," Bobby said. He sat back in the chair, one of his eyes crinkled in a half-squint. "Do you even know what the hell you're doing here, Dean?"

 _"I can't take any chances."_

"Yeah. It's all about protecting Sam. I get that." Bobby sat forward. "But what about you? What if, God forbid, you need Sam's help and he can't get near you?"

Dean met Bobby's stare for as long as he could stand it, then looked away. His leg bounced, and he forced it to still. "He's not coming with me." 

"So your big plan is to leave him here for me to baby-sit, all covered up in spells and incantations, and then - what? Go play ring-around-the-rosie with this thing? Track down your father? Have you lost your fucking mind?" Bobby stood up. "You know, boy, I always thought you had more sense than your father, but I see he's managed to infect you with his bullshit stubbornness."

"It's the only way," Dean said. "And I'm not asking you. I'm telling you." 

"No, Dean." Sam's voice rang out clear in the quiet. 

Dean looked up to see Sam standing so tall in the doorway that he seemed to fill it up, staring at Dean with an odd combination of crestfallen hurt and anger. "What the hell, Sammy? I thought you were going to get some sleep."

"I'm too wired," Sam said, "and never mind that - since when do you make plans for me without talking to me about it?"

"Since always?" Dean said hotly. "This isn't about you, anyway."

"Oh, really?" Sam raised his eyebrows. "Tell me you weren't about to leave me here and run off to find Dad."

"That about sums it up," Bobby said. 

"Bobby, would you excuse us for a minute?" Sam's stare was eating right into Dean, and he had to fight an overwhelming urge to just run for the car, get in, and start driving, just drive until he could outrun this day, and the one before it, and maybe his own skin, which was crawling all over him. 

"Sure thing," Bobby said. On his way by, he pressed the little flask of whiskey into Dean's hand. 

Dean set the flask on the coffee table and tried a pre-emptive strike. "Listen, Sam-"

"I don't need you to protect me," Sam said. "Or make decisions for me. Those days are long gone."

Hot-tempered responses swirled on the tip of Dean's tongue, but he didn't say any of them. His right hand tightened into a fist, squeezing until his knuckles ached with the pressure. "It makes sense," he said finally, glancing up at Sam, who had his arms folded across his chest in classic Sam mode, ready for argument. Dean was too damn tired for the argument Sam was gearing up to have. 

"No, it really doesn't." Sam sat down on the couch next to Dean, not too close. Dean could feel himself relaxing by degrees now that Sam was there, and he hated it, and hated Sam for understanding him so well, because that was going to make things harder. "If your big plan involves you going anywhere alone, forget it." 

"I can't take the risk," Dean said, through gritted teeth. Vivid details crowded into his head: Sam hurt, Sam bruised, Sam with a host of bites on his skin, bleeding and raw because of Dean, and the pain of that was like acid under his skin. "You know it wants-"

"I know," Sam said softly. "Dean. It's my risk to take. We do this together, or you're not going. And don't think I can't stop you, because I can."

Dean eyed him, snapping to the challenge just like Sam had known he would, but the fight within him was not for Sam. "Think so?" he said, because that couldn't be left unchallenged. 

A tiny smile manifested on Sam's face, full of gentle confidence. "Yeah." 

"Yeah, well. That's just because I'm...off my game." Dean looked down at his hands, at the broken finger splinted off at an odd angle. 

"We'll try it out when this is over," Sam said. Just like when they were kids, always eager to test himself against Dean, prove he was grown up, that he was as fast and tough as Dean was. Only now, Dean didn't need Sam to prove it to him anymore. For a fraction of a moment, he wished Sam was back at Stanford, safe and sound, but this was the road Sam had chosen. One more thing Dean was responsible for; one more thing he couldn't undo. 

He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and nodded, because his voice had deserted him. 

"Good," Sam said, nodding back. 

"So," Bobby said from the hallway, where he'd clearly been eavesdropping, "I've got something. Maybe the thing we need." He rounded the corner carrying a stack of books, odd shapes and sizes, and dumped them on the ground at Sam's feet, keeping one as reference. "There's a little incantation that'll keep you from being possessed by any kind of spirit or entity, including demons. It pretty much keeps everything living or undead from coming near you."

"That sounds perfect," Sam said, but Bobby wagged the book at him. 

"You didn't let me get to the downside. It only lasts about three days - seventy-two hours, tops. Once it's done, it's done. You can't use it again."

"Well, that sucks." Dean scratched his head. "I guess we have to be pretty damn sure this is what we want to waste it on."

"I don't like it," Sam said. When Dean turned to him, ready to lay into him, Sam held up a hand. "No, listen, Dean. Shit like this backfires all the time. I don't want to be in a position where I can't help you." 

"Well, that's an easy fix," Bobby said. He tapped the page. "Circle of two. I can bind you together and work the incantation on you as a single unit. Then as long as you're together, it'll work." He drew his finger along the page. "The only thing is - if you're separated by more than a few yards, it's like the incantation never happened. So you have to stay together."

Dean glanced at Sam. Sam shook his head and said, "That's nothing new." 

 

**

 

Sam had never been so tired. Not when he'd stayed up three nights in a row cramming for first-year finals to keep the precious scholarships that kept him at Stanford; not when he'd been six and frightened awake in the car while zombie-looking things pounded on the door and Dean fumbled with holy water; not even when he'd first hooked up with Jess and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her long enough to sleep for an entire weekend. This was the kind of tired that had him swaying on his feet, asleep with his eyes open and completely out of adrenaline, no back-up juice left at all. 

Dean came up beside him, gave him a little push, and it knocked Sam off balance. To compensate, Dean grabbed his elbow and wrenched him upright again. 

"You planning on getting some sleep after this?" Dean asked, ever direct. 

"Maybe." Sam took off his shirt and folded it, then dropped it on his jeans, which were also folded neatly on the floor over his boots and socks. 

Dean stood there awkwardly, still dressed except for his shoes, which were topsy-turvy under the table. He glanced at Bobby, who was busy writing incantations on pieces of paper and was scrupulously avoiding looking at them. Slowly, Dean slipped off his jeans and tossed them on the couch. Without looking at Sam, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it, too, and then they were standing there together in boxers and briefs, arms crossed over their chests. 

For Sam, the need to look won out over the need to soothe Dean's embarrassment, and he did look, despite Dean's death glare. "Turn around," he said softly. 

The protest died on Dean's split lip when he met Sam's eyes, and he did turn. There were spots of dried blood on Dean's briefs, and his back was a mass of black and blue and red. The band-aids seemed small and ineffective compared to the bruising. Sam tried to speak, discovered his throat was closed. He cleared it and tried again. "I need to dress those wounds again." 

"Before or after we start playing in the paint?" Dean asked, turning his head sideways. 

"After, I guess." 

Bobby's head was bowed, and he had stopped fussing with the papers. Very quietly, he said, "Once this thing is done, you can wash the paint off. It won't matter." He glanced up at Sam for a fraction of a second, and Sam saw tears in his eyes as he quickly turned and started shelving books. 

Dean reached for his shirt. 

Sam caught his wrist. "No, Dean. Either you do this the way we agreed, or I'm not doing it, either."

"Dammit, Sammy."

"No," Sam said again, with a hint of iron in his voice. Dean nodded, and Sam let go of him. "Don't try to cover it up," he added, even more softly. "This is not your fault. Maybe Bobby needs to see it. Maybe he needs to understand."

Dean closed his eyes, and Sam thought that the circles of fatigue under his own eyes were nothing compared to the ones Dean was sporting. 

"Let's get this show on the road," Bobby said. He was composed again, expression bland and compassionate. Sam was reminded of their father. He couldn't help it; he had twenty-three years of history to overcome, and he couldn't just _stop_ thinking of him, no matter what kind of associations the memories brought to the surface. He sighed and let it go. 

Bobby handed Sam a piece of paper and a pot of inky black paint that looked like it was leftover from some ancient art project. "Paint those on and let me know when you're done." 

"Great," Dean said, staring at the set of symbols on the notebook page. "Art really isn't my thing." 

"Shut up and spread your arms," Sam ordered. Dean's eyes narrowed, but he stretched his arms out to his sides. Sam stuck his finger into the paint and wiggled it around, then started dabbing symbols on Dean's sides, carefully, slowly. They weren't too complex, but they were somewhat intricate, and he didn't have a brush. 

"Hey, Sam? Hate to break it to you, but your finger-painting sucks," Dean said, glancing down at Sam's handiwork all over his chest. "I'm sensing a serious lack of artistic talent here." 

"Runs in the family," Sam retorted, concentrating on the work. He moved around Dean as he painted, ducking under his arm, until finally he was faced with how to finish the symbols on Dean's back without touching his wounds. 

"Just do it," Dean said. So Sam dipped in and painted, slow swirling half-circles and fluid lines, over the top of band-aids, over the indented curves of bite marks, across the edges of purple-black bruises, around gashes and scratches the length of Dean's back.

Beneath his touch, Dean shivered and stood as still as a statue. 

When Sam was finished, he pushed down on Dean's arm as a signal. "Finally," Dean sighed, and grabbed the page and paint from Sam. "My turn to torture you. Stand still."

"Get a ladder," Sam said, and Dean's lips quirked. 

"Funny. Just wait until you get this crap on you and you start itching. We'll see who's laughing then."

"I'll still be laughing," Sam informed him, and for just that second, it was almost back to normal, testosterone and laughter, but then Dean reached up and winced at the pull of half-closed gashes. "Dean," Sam started, but Dean shook his head furiously. 

"I swear to God, Sammy, if you start mothering me I will kick your fucking ass."

"Wasn't," Sam said, and trained his eyes straight ahead as Dean began jabbing paint onto his body with angry motions. 

After a while, as Dean had to work harder to get the symbols right, his touch slowed, became more deliberate, less annoyed. There was a certain kind of zen to it, Sam thought; he'd felt the power in the symbols as he'd moved along. Dean's hands on him weren't unfamiliar. His brother had bathed him, dressed him, helped him shave the first time, sewn him up after hunts gone wrong, wrestled with him. There was a gentle comfort in the way Dean stopped, started, stopped again, trying to get it right. It made Sam's chest ache. 

"Got it," Dean said finally, a touch of pride in his voice. Sam pressed his chin to his chest and looked down. His torso was a mess of black paint, sticky and flaking already, but it was done. 

"This is so not going to come off in the shower," Sam said, and Dean actually snorted, not quite a laugh, but close. Just the sound of it made Sam smile. 

"Bobby?" Sam called, and like magic, Bobby rounded the corner. He looked at both of them, and a grin quirked the corner of his mouth. 

"You were right about that art thing," he said to Dean, and this time, Dean did smile, briefly. The ache in Sam's chest eased just a little. 

"Now what?" Sam said. 

"Now I do some mojo," Bobby said. He picked up a pocket-sized book that looked brittle enough to fall apart any second. "Stand closer together." 

They each stepped sideways, until their shoulders were touching. 

"Perfect." Bobby drew a simple salt line around them, enclosing them in a rough circle, then stepped back. He read something to himself, lips moving in practice, and then he said out loud: "Sui generis, benedictum." 

Warmth radiated through Sam's body, starting in his belly and then out into his limbs, up through his chest. Suddenly the symbols were glowing, _burning,_ and he gasped. It wasn't pain, exactly; it was heat, power, coursing through him. Beside him, Dean's breathing was shallow and rapid, and his eyes were closed again. 

And then it was over; the heat was gone as suddenly as it had begun. Sam gave in to the impulse to raise a hand and wipe at his chest, pushing away the impression of burning skin. He and Dean glanced at each other. "That's it?" Dean said, frowning. 

"Guess so," Sam said. 

Bobby closed the book with a snap. "Yep. That's it."

"Huh," Dean said. "Well, that's...anticlimactic."

"Not everything can be flashy," Bobby said. "Some of those old magicians were practical, too. Got to get on with their day and whatnot." 

"Right," Sam said. He picked up his shirt, handed Dean his, and they pulled them over their heads in unison. 

"Not so fast," Bobby said. He set the book down and whipped off his shirt, then stood there looking from one to the other. "My turn."

Sam said, "What?"

"You're planning to bring John here, right? No offense, but I don't particularly want to get possessed, either. I like myself as I am." He folded his hands. "Best get to paintin'."

Dean picked up the paint and handed it to Sam, who handed it back. "I'll do _half,_ " he said, shoving the paint into Dean's hand when he resisted. 

"Okay, but you're totally doing the _front_ half," Dean hissed. 

That's when Sam noticed the chest hair. 

**

They said their goodbyes with full anticipation of being back within a day or two, and then they hit the road. "He can't have gotten far without a car," Sam said, handing Dean the map. He'd drawn a radius of their location vs. the location of all their father's local friends. 

Dean stared at the precise circles and lines intersecting across the page, then set the map on the dashboard. "You know Dad. He's resourceful. We'll know when we call." 

They went six hours, figuring that would put them close enough for their father to reach them within a day or so, far enough to keep him from jumping to the conclusion that they'd run to Bobby's, and then they started looking for someplace to grab a nap. Dean's motel of choice was a tiny dive right on the edge of the road, with a fenced pool the size of a grapefruit in the middle of the parking lot and a bar on either side. Sam pulled in and parked in front of the office. 

"I'll get the room," Sam said, then stopped. "You have any cards we haven't used? We're a month past due on all of mine."

"Damn," Dean muttered. He reached under the seat and pulled out the emergency packet; three or four credit cards, salted in with maps, lightsticks, and about forty dollars in small bills. He handed Sam the card on top. "Here you go, Michael Davis. Don't spend it all in one place." 

Sam smiled uncomfortably. Dean was pretty sure that no matter what the circumstance, it was never going to get easier for Sam to embrace this criminal lifestyle thing. Dean wondered if it had bugged Sam the entire time they were growing up, once he was old enough to figure it out, or if it just came over him late in life. That was Sam's problem - he wanted to be respectable and normal. 

When Sam disappeared into the office, Dean slid over behind the wheel and pulled out his phone. There was a missed call flashing on the screen, a number he didn't recognize. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He flipped the phone open and dialed voice mail, then listened to some woman tell him about her poltergeist in a halting narrative, punctuated by little hesitations, as if she couldn't quite believe she was confessing her insane theories to a stranger's voice mail. Usually it was enough to bring a little bit of arrogant compassion into his heart, and then he'd call and reassure them that no, they weren't crazy and yes, Dean Winchester could fix their problems. 

Not tonight, though. She'd have to wait. 

He saved her message and closed the phone. It wasn't quite dark, but close enough that the motel lights were on, a stripped-down whiteness overpowering the gloomy shadows. 

Both hands clasped on the steering wheel, he tried to think through the next twenty-four hours, step by step. Sam would talk him into getting a beer, and they'd get a little drunk, coasting on the belief that nothing could get to them right now. Dean wasn't able to convince himself it was true, but that was his problem, his paranoia. He'd put on a good show for Sam, anyway. Then Sam would try not to make it obvious that he was scared, and Dean would use the phone to call their father, and then they'd see just how well that spell worked, anyway. 

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Next to the Impala, a car full of road-tripping Midwesterners pulled up and disgorged four small kids, whining about bathroom breaks and boredom and dinner. He watched the mom get out of the car - good-looking, still young, but asleep on her feet - and then the dad, smiling and promising a swim before bed. 

Dad had never let them swim when they were kids. Motels weren't for vacation, he'd said; they were just a necessary stopping point. Sometimes Dean had let Sam swim anyway, when Dad was on the hunt. 

Every time his father's face appeared into his mind's eye, cold crept over him alongside the image, the kind of cold made of gut-deep fear. If he could just get that sensation off his skin; the demon touching him with his father's hands, his father's mouth, the sound of the demon's words wrapped in his father's voice. 

_C'mon, Dean. Ohhh, that's right. Is this the best you can do? Put up a fight._

All the angry post-hunt diatribes and impatient lessons had been delivered in that same scornful, mocking tone. 

_You want people to think you're weak? You have to stand up for yourself. Come on, Dean. What, are you holding back because it's me? Put up a fight, son._

His mind replayed them in tandem, the demon's taunts and his father's barbs, until he could barely tell them apart. 

The idea of seeing his dad again made his hair stand on end, goose bumps all over his body, and his stomach curled into a tight knot. The little voice of self-preservation whispered to him that it might be the same thing, that he was asking for death, inviting it to his doorstep. 

"Hey," Sam said at the window, and Dean jumped. Then he slammed his hand into the steering wheel, because he might as well have been asleep, his head was so far out of the game. "Sorry," Sam said, backing up a step. Dean opened his mouth to tell him that wasn't the goddamned point, but he closed it again at the look on Sam's face. "C'mon, we're in fourteen. And then we can get a beer."

"You are such an alcoholic," Dean said, and watched as a cautious light of optimism came into Sam's eyes. Better. "Maybe they'll sell us a bottle, instead." 

"That'd work." Sam took it in stride, and Dean couldn't help but be a little grateful. It may have been the first time in the history of his life that he'd recoiled at the idea of spending time in a room full of strangers, but he was tired, and he didn't have any energy to spare. 

Twenty minutes later they had a bottle of whiskey and four bottles of dark beer, plus four bags of chips and two sandwiches. They split the loot between them, sitting on their respective beds and munching down handfuls of chips, then washing it down with booze. A lot of booze, actually. Enough to empty three quarters of a bottle, and Sam wasn't really having any, yet. Dean was starting to feel pleasantly warm again, and he didn't mind the numbness at all. It took the edge off. 

"Paint is itchy," he said, rubbing his shirt over his chest absently.

Sam snickered. "You remember in third grade, how I plastered my hands and forearms with paste and you had to peel it off me after it dried?"

"Yeah," Dean said, and drank some whiskey out of the cheap motel glass. "And I remember you itching for a week."

"That wasn't as bad as when I got poison ivy and didn't tell you because I knew you'd make fun of me."

"Damn straight! What kind of Winchester doesn't know about poison ivy?"

"The kind who never got to go camping?" Sam said. "Unless you consider sleeping in the car camping."

"Not really," Dean agreed. The room was spinning around to the left, and he let himself spin with it. Easiest way to keep from puking. "That was pretty fucked up."

"I had that rash for weeks," Sam said. He leaned forward and flailed until he caught the lip of the whiskey bottle with his fingers, then pinched it and lifted it over to his lap. 

Dean could remember how pissed their dad had been, and how fast that evaporated when he saw the welts developing on Sammy's chest. Then it had been calamine lotion and cold compresses and antihistamines and lukewarm baths, and Dean had enjoyed it while it lasted, because their dad contrite was a lot nicer to be around than their dad focused and obsessed. 

His tailbone was aching, so he stood up and swayed, looking around the room. "You got my phone?" he asked, and just like that, Sam's mood changed. 

"I'll do it," he said, and touched the buttons on his own phone. The pale blue light reflected on Sam's face made him look like a ghost. 

For twenty minutes or so, Sam worked his way down the list of their father's friends and fellow hunters. Have you seen him, do you know where he is, could you tell him to call me. The same questions, again and again, and each time Sam avoided looking at Dean. 

"'s pointless," Dean said, finally, pouring himself another half glass of whiskey. Sam shot him a look, but said nothing. 

The phone rang, startling them both. Sam answered it with a neutral "Hello?" and then listened for a good thirty seconds. 

When he met Dean's eyes, Dean tossed back the rest of his whiskey without stopping. 

"Yeah," Sam said, and then, "Meet us tomorrow at 5:00 am in Franklin, in the field behind the gas station just outside of town. At the crossroads. You know where I mean?" A pause, and then, "Yeah." Another pause, and "No." And then, stronger: "I said no. Be there." 

The soft plop of the phone hitting the bedspread, and then Sam poured himself a drink. Sam's face was pale, but his eyes were full of anger. "So what d'ya think?" Dean asked. "Is it...that thing, or is it Dad?"

"I can't tell," Sam said softly. "But there's no way I'm letting him talk to you." 

"Could have had him meet us at Bobby's," Dean said, watching Sam drink his whiskey. 

"Need to see if the charm works before we put Bobby in danger," Sam said, pausing the glass halfway to his lips. "We owe him."

"No way to know for sure." 

Sam nodded. "Best we can do." 

Dean was cold, and the whiskey wasn't helping. He started moving, got a little bit of forward momentum, and got all the way to the bathroom before he had to sit down hard on the closed toilet seat. Pain tore through him from his ass all the way up to the top of his spine and he hissed out loud. "Christ," he said, and a second later, Sam was there, looking all sorrowful and helpful and it really, really pissed Dean off. 

"Get in the shower," Sam ordered, stripping down himself. 

Dean rolled his eyes. "I can wash myself, thanks," he said, but Sam's expression was deadly serious. 

"No, you can't. I need to get the paint off those bites, and I'm disgusting too, and dude. Just do it."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, his voice gone low with mocking. It took him two tries to paw the shirt off over his head, and then he fell sideways. Sam poked him until he sat up again. 

By the time they got into the shower, Dean was half asleep, and he stood with his head propped against the nice cool tiles while Sam fussed over him with a washcloth and some strongly-scented soap, picking flakes of paint off his skin and washing the damn bites. It all hurt, every touch and scrape and beat of the water, and Sam was being so gentle Dean wanted to punch him right in the face, but he didn't, because Sam was trying so fucking hard not to hurt him. 

He submitted to having his hair dried with a towel, Sam's hands rubbing back and forth over his head, before he shrugged into clean clothes and followed Sam out of the bathroom. "That's the last time we are ever doing that," he said, matter-of-fact, before he flopped down on the bed. 

"Whatever." Sam was drying his own mass of hair, so his words were muffled. 

"No band-aids?" Dean said, watching Sam as he tossed the towel on the other bed. The neck of his shirt was wet. 

"You don't need them. Everything is closing up fine."

"Says you," Dean said, and then stopped himself. That was just stupid. He rolled on his back, made a little yelp of pain, and then rolled on his side again, curled in on himself. 

"Move over," Sam said, and Dean looked up to see Sam looming over the bed. 

"Goddamn," he said, grinning up. "You're huge."

"Shut up," Sam said. He sprawled out beside Dean and closed his eyes. "And go to sleep." 

Dean watched Sam for a minute, the way his body tensed and how every muscle, from his jaw to his toes, seemed to be clenched. That, he could understand. 

"Circle of two," he huffed, as if saying it could make it so. Sam blinked, but didn't answer. 

Just before he fell asleep, Dean moved forward and rested his forehead against Sam's, clinging to a memory from when he was ten and Sam was six and everything was changing again; they were moving to a new town, faster than Dean could process, and Sam had been scared.

Sam shifted closer, warm and comforting. Dean remembered telling him a bedtime story, that they were really breathing the same breath instead of two breaths, and Sam was safe as long as it was so. 

**

The field behind Don's All-Service Station was a long strip of tall grass going fallow, maybe waiting for the next year's crop to go in. Even in the pre-dawn hours, Sam could hear farm machinery in the distance, and he could picture bleary-eyed farmers with half-empty thermoses. Completely normal, mundane lives, same routine, day in, day out. At that moment, he would have given anything to trade places with one of them. 

Dean eased the Impala off the road and into the dirt, not too far into the field, but far enough that any curious passers-by would keep going and not stop to offer help. Dean pushed open the door, the creak of its hinges pronounced in the early morning chill, and said, "Sam, you stay in the car."

Sam stared at him. It was just like Dean to try that false bravado crap now, after everything they'd been through. "Like hell I will," Sam said, and opened the door. He'd barely gotten his feet under him before Dean was stalking around the car, his jaw set, looking for confrontation. Sam slammed the door shut and cut him off before he could even get started. "Look, Dean, we have to stay together. You know that's how this works."

"We don't even know if the damn thing will work at all." 

"If it doesn't-then it doesn't matter where I am." 

"Then you should take the car and go." Dean's expression was resolute. 

"If I do, you won't be protected," Sam said softly, and watched Dean struggle with it, watched as he broke the stare rather than let Sam see what he was feeling. More gently, Sam added, "I'm not leaving. Forget it."

"This is the dumbest damn idea we have ever had," Dean muttered, and turned to lean on the side of the car. 

Sam swallowed and nodded. When he eased his own body back against the cold metal, grateful for its support, fatigue rushed over him. 

"Shouldn't I feel something? I don't feel anything. Do you?" Dean asked, scratching absently at his chest like he had a hundred times since Bobby worked the magic. 

"No....maybe. I don't know. Bobby knows what he's doing." It was thin reassurance, but it seemed to ease Dean's restlessness, because he stopped rubbing his chest. Sam glanced over Dean's head at the road. "Dean." 

Dean glanced up at him, then turned his head to see what Sam was staring at. In the distance, a dot was barreling toward them down the unpaved rural route, kicking up a thin cloud of dirt. They watched as it came closer, until Sam could actually make out the truck itself; light blue, and it had seen better days. It was probably older than Sam and Dean put together. 

Dean moved around to the front of the Impala, waiting. 

When it was near enough to see the driver, Sam went to Dean's side and stepped close. Dean's body tensed. 

"Whatever happens, you stay clear, you hear me?" Dean's voice was low and rough, and Sam wondered how many different weapons he had concealed. Not that they'd do any good, but they were a part of Dean's invisible armor, and they straightened his spine. 

The truck pulled into the dirt, brakes putting up a protest at the hard stop. John Winchester, or whatever was wearing his body, opened the door and stepped out. 

"Boys," John said. His hands were shoved down into his coat, arms as stiff as new wire; he looked at Dean like there was no one else standing in that road. Something about it made Sam want to step between them, which made no sense at all, except to the portion of his brain that was running on pure adrenaline, fight or flight. 

Sam swallowed hard and resisted the impulse to look at Dean. "What happened to the Colt?" he asked evenly. 

"I don't know," John said. "I can't remember anything after I...It left me in the middle of the woods, and I...Oh, my God. _Dean._ " The raw, unvarnished grief beneath the words struck Sam's heart and skidded over it.

Sam did look at Dean, then; he couldn't help himself. When he saw how pale Dean's skin was, the way all expression seemed to have left his face, he turned back to John. "Stop it," he ordered, surprised to hear how low and angry his voice sounded. Beyond his control. "Don't say anything else. Just get in the truck and follow us."

He expected an argument, a rebuttal, questions for Dean, but John only nodded and looked away. 

As soon as they were back in the car, Dean turned to Sam. "Sammy, what do you..." He shook his head, jaw clenched, and Sam stared out the windshield at the truck as John climbed into the driver's side. 

"It feels wrong," he said simply, and Dean nodded. Nothing else to say. Sam wasn't sure if the gut-deep sense of dread was because of what he'd seen, how he'd seen Dean hurt, or because this thing wasn't Dad, but at least it hadn't tried to make a move. 

Maybe it was waiting. 

Maybe the protection charm hadn't really been tested yet. 

"Just drive," he said, so low that his words were almost soundless, but Dean already had the car in gear, and they peeled out in a half-circle onto the road. In the side mirror, the truck appeared behind them at a respectable distance, not too close, not nearly far enough away. 

They drove straight through, stopping only once for gas. Dean stayed in the car, both hands on the wheel, while John's truck idled on the road outside the station and Sam filled the tank. Sam opened the driver's side door to take over the driving and Dean slid over without a word between them. 

They waited on the road while John filled up. Then it was straight on to Bobby's, into the same gravel they'd walked across the day before. 

"Let's do this," Dean said, more to himself than Sam, and popped open the door. 

 

**

They stood twenty feet apart on the open gravel, staring at each other, Bobby's side door the halfway point between. No one moved until Bobby opened the door and stepped out, holding a sawed-off shotgun. Dean recognized it; he remembered helping to saw down the barrel himself years ago. It had been a valuable lesson. 

"John," Bobby said, his voice hard and not at all neutral. "Long time no see. If it is you, that is, _John_." His mouth twisted into a thin line, and he lifted the shotgun just a notch. "Let's take this party inside, shall we?"

None of them moved. 

Sam stiffened. He met John's eyes over the distance and said, "After you." 

Dean stood still as a statue while John approached. Sam's hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently. No platitudes, just a push in the direction of Bobby's front door. He gave his head a little shake and started moving, anything to get this over with. 

Bobby's house, which was huge but cluttered, seemed to shrink with the four of them in that confined space. John stood there, obviously trying not to look at Dean, and the tightness in Dean's throat was choking him. 

"Bobby," John said. He lifted his head slowly and looked at Bobby, hands still in his pockets. "I know it's been a long time, but it's me."

"So you say." Bobby didn't budge. Dean felt a ridiculous surge of gratitude. 

"And if it wasn't me-" John nodded toward the shotgun. "--that wouldn't do you a damn bit of good." 

"It makes me feel better," Bobby said, patting the top of the gun fondly. "How about if you have a seat right there and we do a little voodoo?"

John looked back at the chair, then up at the ceiling. Dean forced himself to breathe; there didn't seem to be any air in the goddamned room. "If it makes you feel better," he said. 

Beside Dean, Sam shifted, restless, and Dean could feel it in his own skin, that sense of wrongness. John lowered his head, and turned away toward the chair. 

Sam suddenly raised a hand to his chest, brushing hard over his shirt and staring down at his chest. "What the hell," he gasped, stepping back. 

"Sam!" Dean turned toward Sam, and then it hit him: fire, from somewhere inside his chest, pushing out, a radiating heat that wasn't pain, just discomfort and fear. He grabbed Sam's arm, gripping hard enough to bruise, and shot a glance at John, who was standing still as a statue, his head still lowered. But Dean could see the corner of his mouth lifted, could just make out...

...a smile. 

"I knew it," he said, low, furious. "You son of a bitch."

"You boys are tricky ones," the demon said, and when it lifted its head, the yellow in its eyes was pronounced. The sensation on Dean's skin began to pull back inside him, like water rolling away from land. Sam shook off his hand. "What is that, some kind of protection charm?"

"You didn't think I would let you have him, did you?" Sam's voice was vibrating with anger. "Do you think we're _stupid_?"

"Sammy," the demon said, and it sounded almost fond. Bile rose in Dean's throat. "It wasn't Dean I planned to have this time."

Dean was five steps across the room before he even realized he was in motion, but his brother's arms went around his chest, and Sam used bodily force to drag him back. The demon chuckled, shaking its head. 

"Boys, boys." It tilted its head, examining them. 

Dean gritted his teeth and stared it down. 

Sam made no move to release Dean, and finally Dean hissed, "Let go, dammit." Sam pulled away reluctantly, and Dean shrugged his jacket back down across his shoulders, ignoring the pain as it scraped over his wounds. 

From somewhere to the left, Latin words, phrases: Bobby, and the exorcism ritual. The demon's head snapped right and it lifted its chin. Bobby stopped, the words dragging out haltingly for the length of one phrase, and then he went on. "You, too, you old bastard?" The demon turned its gaze back to Sam and Dean. "I can see you went to a lot of trouble to get the old man back. You sure you really want him? I think he wants you, Dean." Its voice dropped low on the last, so low that Dean couldn't repress a shudder. 

Sam shouldered in front of him, and Dean had the urge to yank him back. "What did you do with the Colt?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" The demon stepped closer, and Sam stepped back. It moved straight toward them, more and more quickly with each step. Dean's heart was banging its way out of his chest. He flailed for Sam's arm, connecting just a second before the demon stopped, quivering with effort, less than a foot away. 

Dean wrapped his fingers around Sam's elbow and held on. He forced himself to look at it, to see it, to know that it wasn't his father, that maybe his father was dead, or still in there, but _this wasn't him_. Beneath his hand, Sam was shaking. 

"Ah, Dean." It moved its head left, then right; it was staring at Dean's lips. "The things I had planned for you tonight...It's a damn shame. You would have enjoyed them. In there, with me." He looked up at Sam, then back at Dean. "I should have known. You Winchesters are really starting to piss me off." 

"Maybe we can help you get over that," Dean said, and the words came out level. He backed up and slipped sideways, pulling Sam with him, putting himself and his brother between the door and the demon. 

Its expression changed, complete annoyance manifesting in its frown. Bobby's voice droned on behind it. "Don't test me, boys."

"What're you going to do?" Dean sneered. "Go through us? Oh, wait. You can't. But thanks for playing." Behind it, Bobby was moving, putting himself between the demon and the back door. 

It smiled then. "There are always ways," it said. "There are so many of us, and you're not that hard to find." It jerked its head toward Bobby. "Now we know how to find him, too. You're not as smart as you think."

"Smarter than you, you fuck," Sam hissed. 

The sound of its laugh, their father's laugh perverted into something like razor blades on wire, made Dean hold his breath. "Maybe today," it said. Then its gaze fell on Dean, and it looked at every inch of him. Dean narrowed his eyes and withstood its scrutiny. "Just think, Dean. You'll never know, will you? I can come for you anywhere, anytime, in any form. You can never trust your father again." It glanced at Sam, its gaze scrubbing over him, overtly appraising. "This quaint little charm won't last forever." 

"We'll be ready for you," Sam said, with a hell of a lot more confidence than Dean was feeling. 

"Sure you will." It grinned at them, and then, in a conspiratorial hush: "I'll whisper that back to you the next time we meet." 

It lowered its head again, and the room around them seemed to snap with electricity, invisible sparks popping in the air. With a grunt, it fell to the floor, then rolled on its back, and its face contorted. Mouth open, hands clenched, and then it vacated John's body, a roaring black mass of demon-essence, swirling in the air, oddly beautiful and disgusting. It seemed to hover there between them for a long moment, and then it crept toward the windows, oozing out of the cracks and crevasses in the old house's siding. 

The burning sensation in Dean's chest left him entirely. He let go of Sam's arm and they stood staring at their father. "Dad?" Sam said, voice breaking. 

John sat up and buried his face in his hands. After a moment, Dean heard it, faint but unmistakable: one sob, caught at the back of John's throat, as if it had been ripped out of him. 

Dean turned around, looking for a chair, a table, anything. He sat down on the coffee table, knocking over books in his way. Sam crouched down beside him. "Dean? Dean." So insistent, and Dean had no voice, nothing to say at all in response. He shook his head. Sam rested his hand on Dean's knee, then sat down on the ground beside him. 

"John." Bobby approached him from the side, knelt near him, and then Dean realized the charm was still active, that none of them could touch him. "John?"

John drew in one long, shaky breath and lifted his head. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and looked at Bobby, nodded once. 

Then he looked at Dean, eyes full of tears and grief, a hundred desperate apologies written there. 

Dean's eyes were stinging with tears. He bit his lip hard enough to cause pain, to draw blood. He could feel himself withdrawing, pulling away one piece at a time, everything going underground into vaults and caves, away from that agonized _look_ on his father's face. He could pretend it never happened, that he wasn't hurt, that _nothing happened_. They'd move on. They'd get through it. 

_You can never trust your father again._

"How long did you say this charm lasts?" Dean asked hoarsely. 

"Couple days," Bobby answered. "At the most."

Dean nodded, never taking his eyes off his father. John put a hand down to the floor, lifted himself unsteadily to his feet, and Bobby rose with him. John stood there, swaying, and something made Sam stand as well, all of them silent. 

Then John made his way to the door and knocked it open, flinging himself outside. Bobby put down both the shotgun and the book, and followed slowly behind. 

Dean put his head down and ran his hands over his skull, as if he could hold everything inside, all the things that were bursting out of him. "Sam," he said, and Sam dropped to one knee beside him, all his attention focused on Dean. "I want to be gone before this thing wears off." 

"Okay," Sam said, not a hint of argument in his voice. "Whatever you want." 

"Okay," Dean said. He listened to the sounds of his father retching outside. "Okay."

 

**

Dean was in full retreat. 

Sam didn't know what else to call it, how else to think of it. Dean went to the back of the house, into the spare bedroom Bobby provided, and made a show of how tired he was, how much he needed sleep. But it was barely dark, and although Sam's own exhaustion was tugging at him like a riptide, there was no way he could sleep. 

Sam sat on the end of the bed and watched Dean toss and turn, watched him tear off his shirt and complain of the heat, then pull it back on slowly, as if the effort caused him pain. 

"Do you want me to stay?" Sam asked finally, though he'd been there for an hour, shoes still on, perched on the edge of the bed as if he could leap up any minute. 

Dean rolled on his side and swallowed, then met his eyes. "No," he said finally, but it wasn't convincing. 

"I'm going to sleep in here tonight," Sam said. No asking permission, no checking for agreement. Sam was tempted to say he didn't plan to sleep, but he knew he was on the thin edge of falling apart and would have to close his eyes. A shadow of relief passed over Dean's face, so subtle he might have been embarrassed to know Sam had recognized it, and he put his face back down into the pillow. 

"Whatever," he said, and closed his eyes. Sam waited until the restless shifting passed, and when Dean's breathing slowed and his lashes stopped fluttering against his bruised face, Sam left him in peace, the door cracked open. Just in case. 

Bobby was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a whiskey bottle both at hand. Sam suspected there was more of the latter than the former in the cup. "Where's Dad?" he asked, as he lifted a glass from the strainer. 

"Still outside." Bobby pushed the whiskey toward Sam with one finger, and Sam poured what would have been about six expensive shots into his glass. 

"He might as well come in," Sam said. He stared down into the glass, and then up at Bobby's patient face. "It's not like he can avoid us forever." 

"He needs a little time," Bobby said, which of course Sam already knew. 

"You give him some of this?" he asked, and swallowed a long gulp of the whiskey; it burned a line straight down his throat. 

"Tried. He wouldn't take it."

"I'm sure he'll change his mind," Sam said. 

They sat in silence for a while, sipping and listening. Sam half expected Dean to come out and join them, mumbling about not being able to sleep, but there was no sign of him. "I should check on Dean," he said finally, and Bobby's fingers closed over his wrist, holding him there at the table. 

"You should let him be," Bobby said. Just then the screen door opened, the creak of it overly loud in the artificial quiet. Bobby moved his hand. "Got work to do," he said. He stood, grabbed a clean glass, and put it down on the table. Then he left Sam sitting there. 

John came as far as the kitchen doorway, but no further. He hovered, not quite inside the room, and Sam knew he was waiting - for permission, maybe, or for something a lot more complicated. Something Sam couldn't give him. 

Sam picked up the bottle, , ,poured a shot almost as deep as the one he'd poured for himself, and set the glass on the opposite end of the table. 

John rubbed a hand over his face, then pulled out a chair. He sat, awkward, and picked up the glass. 

More silence. Sam thought his heart was going to burst from the pressure of it, and then John said, "You boys shouldn't have come for me."

"I didn't do it for you," Sam said, without a thought for how harsh that truth was, and John looked away. A twinge of guilt gnawed at Sam, and he said, more gently, "Dad. I know it wasn't you that did this. So does Dean." 

"Doesn't make any difference." John tossed back the whiskey, in a way Sam hadn't seen him drink in over a decade. "What I did to him. What it..." He trailed off, and Sam wished desperately that it didn't have to be him, that he didn't have to hear the confession, but he tightened his grip on his glass and waited. He could feel the grief pouring off his father, all the pent-up truths, the things the demon had shoved down inside him. "What it made me do." His voice cracked, and Sam bowed his head. 

If he looked at his father's face, he would lose it; he would break open and everything would spill out, and he couldn't afford that. Not now. 

"Dean's all right." Sam refilled John's glass, and then his own. 

"Come on, Sammy." Raw, flat truth underscored with impatience. "Did you at least take him to a hospital?"

Now Sam did look up, because the flare of anger made it bearable to see John's face. "You're kidding, right? _Dean?_ Do you think he would _ever_ let a doctor see something like that?" He held his father's gaze until it wavered, until John's blustering attempt at regaining control crumpled and caved, and then he said, "You know better than anyone how bad it was."

"Jesus." The choked sound of it startled Sam. "I wish it..." John's voice trailed off, but the tone...Goose bumps rose on Sam's arms. 

"You wish...what?" Sam's voice rose. "You think it would be better for Dean if it took you away from us, too?"

"It doesn't matter." The words came out dull, flat. "What he sees when he looks at me...That won't ever go away."

Not much he could say in response to that blunt horror, so Sam just drank his whiskey. 

"I'll stay out of his way," John said. "Until he's ready to see me." 

"We won't be here when the charm wears off," Sam said, and let the weight of the unsaid settle onto John's shoulders. 

John flinched when it hit him. "Your brother's idea?" he asked slowly. 

Sam nodded. 

"What it said to you, about trusting me." John slumped back in the chair. "You know it was right."

"Bullshit," Sam said, with all the conviction he could muster. "There's a way to make sure this doesn't happen again, and we're going to find it." 

"There aren't charms like that, Sam." That was familiar, that father-knows-best-and-he'll-tell-you tone. "I'd have heard about them by now. Demons can move freely from body to-"

"You don't know everything," Sam hissed. "You didn't know about this, or it would have known, too." 

John's eyes darkened. "Maybe it's better if you and your brother do leave, if you have some foolish idea that you can-"

"Can't get him away fast enough, can you?" Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. "It's always this way, isn't it, Dad? You don't show up for the hard stuff. You're only here now because it _made you come here_." 

"That's crap," John said. There was the beginning of a dangerous look in his eyes, but Sam ignored it. Not like John could touch him; not like Sam wouldn't enjoy proving to him what a bad idea it was if he could. 

"That's _fact_ ," Sam said. He shook his head. "You do what you want. We'll be gone tomorrow anyway." He picked up his glass and flung it into the sink; droplets of whiskey sprayed across the floor as it arced, jangling into the metal basin. He was tired, and all he wanted to do was lie down and not _worry_ anymore. They still had a little time, and he could rest, for just a while. Just enough to get his strength back, so he could watch over Dean. 

Dean would think that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Which was why Sam would never tell him. 

The door to Dean's room was cracked open a little wider than when Sam left, and for a moment, all his senses went into overdrive. 

_I left Dad in the kitchen._

No reason for it, but he was scared suddenly, and he pushed the door open. 

The puppy had clambered up with Dean somehow and was nestled in the curve of his arm where it disappeared under the pillow. Sam grinned; he couldn't help it. He closed the door softly, kicked off his shoes, stripped down to his jeans and socks, and crawled onto the other side of the bed. The puppy lifted its head and looked at him, as if deciding whether Sam would be warmer than his current human blanket. 

By the time it put its head back down, Sam was asleep. 

 

**

 

Face. Wet. Whimpering. 

Dean cracked open one eye and got a tiny, eager tongue in it for his trouble. "Ugh," he said, and lifted the puppy by the scruff of its neck, earning a whimper for his rejection. He leaned over the bed and set the puppy down gently on the floor. "Go pick on someone your own size," he told it, and steadfastly ignored any cuteness it was trying to inflict on him. 

He wiped his face and put his head back down on the pillow, but he was awake now. It was dark outside; at least he'd managed to sleep through the evening and part of the night. The house was quiet, and-- 

\--he twisted and looked over his shoulder. Sam was sprawled out on the other half of the bed, on top of the covers, dead to the world. Dean took a deep breath. Sam had been running on empty since it happened, and Dean had been waiting for him to crash. He looked half-sick in the dim light, too pale, too tired. 

Right on cue, Sam stirred. Ever since they were kids, he'd always known somehow when someone was watching him. It was one of the creepier things about him. "Dammit," Dean whispered. "Go back to sleep, Sam."

"Dean?" Sam opened his eyes, blinked slowly. "Hey." 

"Sorry," Dean said. He rolled onto his back, and then onto his other side, facing Sam. "Seriously, go back to sleep."

"Nah, s'okay." Sam looked completely wrecked, fogged over by sleep and too much responsibility. He shifted around and settled on his back, hands folded over his stomach. "You sleep?"

"Yeah." 

The puppy yipped, and Dean winced. Sam grinned. "Dump your girlfriend?"

"Shut up," Dean answered, but his chest felt about ten pounds lighter. 

Sam rubbed a hand over his face and sat up, braced on his elbows. "You want to hit the road?"

"Hell, no," Dean said. He put his hand on the center of Sam's chest and pushed him down, not gently. Sam let him. "Sleep." 

"Then why'd you wake me up?" Sam squinted at him, still locked in the fuzzy place of not-awake. 

Dean sighed. "I didn't. Not on purpose." 

"Oh." Sam closed his eyes. Dean could see how much he wanted to go back to sleep, but for some reason, he was fighting it. 

"I'm okay," Dean said, searching for the piece that would fit and lock and let Sam give up the burden for a couple hours. 

"I know," Sam said. He turned a sleepy smile on Dean, and just like that, he was out. Dean shook his head and smiled, and rolled on his back. 

There was something unnatural about the quiet in the place. He hated it. Dean could feel the itch to get back on the road and kill something; the Impala was calling to him, and he really wanted to get under her skin as soon as possible. They hadn't even unpacked; all their crap was still in the car. 

Maybe they should leave now. 

He put that thought out of his head as soon as it entered. Sam was going to get some sleep even if Dean had to tie him to the bed. He cracked his neck from side to side, ignoring the twinges and pulls, and sat up carefully, so as not to set Sam off again. 

He didn't actually remember much of the layout of Bobby's house, so it was a challenge to find his way to the kitchen, but he managed. All the while, in the back of his brain, warning signals fired-- 

_he's here he's here he's here_

\--but he ignored those, too. It wasn't like he could go on being a sheltered little bitch forever. He was going to have to suck it up and deal. 

He pulled bologna and cheese out of the fridge, checking that strong sensation of danger, completely disregarding the impulse to grab something sharp out of Bobby's arsenal and do a sweep of the house. The only things there to find were his father - and that was a known quantity - and two people who'd done everything, including risk their own lives, to help him. To help John. 

With deftness born of practice, he rolled up a piece of cheese in a slice of bologna and took a bite, then rummaged through the fridge until he found some milk, which he drank straight out of the carton. Not like anyone here would care. He wondered if Sam had eaten anything. 

He made one more roll-up, then put the food back and closed the fridge. 

There was a clock ticking somewhere in the kitchen, which seemed abnormally loud. 

If he listened hard enough, he was pretty sure he'd be able to hear his father breathing. 

Fuck it. He shivered off the willies and padded back into the hallway, down toward the living room. 

John was in a chair pulled close to the fire, bent forward, staring into the flames, hands clasped. There was a bottle on the hearth; the firelight caught in the liquid, turning it fiery gold. Dean watched him for a long moment. His father looked fresh-scrubbed, as though he'd just come out of the shower; his hair was still wet. The thought slithered through Dean's mind-- 

_he had to scrub you off him_

\--and he ignored that, too. Only way to get by. 

When Dean cleared his throat, John stirred, slowly, as if he'd been roused from a deep sleep. He turned his head to look at Dean in the doorway, and Dean carefully composed himself at the strange mixture of dread and hope in his father's eyes. "I thought you might be gone by now," Dean said. 

"Was thinkin' about it," John said. He looked away, back into the fire. 

Dean's chest was tight. He wanted to ask - _why didn't you_ \- but the answer would be something that had to do with the demon, or work, or any of a hundred things that had nothing to do with him, so he didn't bother. He pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck where it worried the worst of the bites, forcing back a flare of restless irritation. The room was too small, the fire too warm. 

"Sam said you were leaving," John said quietly. 

"We are," Dean said. "Sam needs some rest first." 

"What about you?" 

A simple question, the kind of thing his father had asked him a hundred times in different ways over years on the road. Always, it had been about moving on; always, he wanted to hear them say _I'm fine_ and _I can do it, Dad_ , and anything else had been met with a dark stare and quiet disapproval. _Be strong, boys. Don't complain unless you're really hurt. You can push through tired._

Dean shrugged and said nothing. He focused his attention on the snapping fire, hyper-conscious of the silence. 

"I asked you a question, son." His father's voice was so gentle, it made Dean shiver. 

"I don't think you get to ask me questions right now," Dean said, equally as soft. He looked at the back of John's head, at his shoulders, and saw him flinch, but he wasn't sorry. 

John put his hands on the arms of the chair, gripping hard, and then stood up. He moved slowly, but that didn't change the fact that Dean's heart was suddenly off like a fucking racehorse. He forced himself not to move, not to react. "Dean," John said. "If I could have stopped it, I would. I would never have hurt you, never-"

"But you did," Dean said. John closed his mouth, and whatever he'd been about to say was lost in the chill of the moment. Dean struggled for his own words, for ways to say it, and all he could muster up was, "Sam was begging you to stop." _But not me. I didn't beg._ Some residual pride there, one thing he could keep of himself. 

"I _couldn't_ stop it." The words burst out of John, and now it was Dean's turn to flinch. "You think I _wanted_ to be in there while it took its time with you? My own _son_? Jesus, Dean. Anything but that, God. _Anything_."

Anything. It took a moment for the full implications to register. Dean stared at his father. "So killing me would have been better? Easier for you?"

John turned pale, all the blood draining from his face. "No. I didn't mean that." His throat worked. "I thought...I believed I'd have to watch you die."

"If you had stopped it-"

"I tried to stop it." John's voice, not quite a shout, rang through the room. 

"You didn't try hard _enough_ , goddammit!" Dean realized then that he'd moved, that he was only a foot away from John, and oh how he wanted to knock him down, to beat some of that rage out of his blood, let it sink back into his father where it belonged. 

John nodded, and wiped a hand over his eyes, once, twice, but he didn't make any more fucking excuses. Dean was oddly disappointed. And then, the words bubbled up, ugly, raw, from somewhere in his gut, and he didn't try to pull them back. "How much of what it said was true, anyway?"

"What?" John was staring at him like he was a freak, something alien he didn't recognize, and Dean smiled, a vicious twist of his lips. 

"How much? Did you want to hurt me? Did you get off on it?"

Oh, he could see it on John's face. There was a war going on in there, kid gloves vs. big guns, and John's eyes were flashing with anger, and a level of hurt Dean hadn't seen in years, maybe since his mother died. John's lips worked, but he didn't speak, and then: "I understand that you're hurt, Dean, but-"

"You don't understand at all," Dean snarled. _"How much of it could you feel_?"

John bowed his head, and when he looked up, his face was blank, a poker face any man could be proud of. "Everything." 

"Christ," Dean hissed, nausea welling up again, slipping up his spine like vertigo, on the back of his tongue. 

"Dean-"

"All those years you kept us on the run and trained us and never let us be normal, all of it, and _you couldn't do anything when it mattered_." He crushed the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, bruising back tears, and then he said, "It was me. I should have known. I should have shot you. That's what you wanted, right? For me to kill you, when I knew?"

John said nothing. Dean looked up, and just then John reached out a hand. Dean reacted without thinking, just a reflex of self-protection; he blocked John's arm and knocked his hand away. Before it even registered, he saw John's eyes widen, felt his own heartbeat speed, and he scrambled backward, knocking over a chair in the process. 

No barrier. No protection. 

"Stay away," he said, one arm outstretched, his hand twitching. 

In that moment, John went completely still, as if he'd been turned to stone. For Dean, it was the moment before a cat pounces on the mouse; he waited, barely able to breathe. 

"Dad? Dean?" Sam's voice, rough with sleep, from the doorway behind Dean. 

"It's worn off," Dean said, his own voice low. 

Sam moved fast, putting himself between Dean and John, but he was facing Dean. "It's okay," he said softly, putting his hand on Dean's arm. "There are salt lines across every threshold, every door and window. I put them there myself. Dean. It can't get back in. It's okay." 

Sam's urgent tone penetrated Dean's low-level fear, easing it into submission. Dean took hold of Sam's shoulders, squeezing once, and then moved him aside. John was still standing there, but now his posture had changed; his shoulders were down, his hands in his pockets. "You didn't answer me," Dean pressed. "That's what you wanted, right?"

"I wanted you to kill the demon," John said. "It didn't matter if it cost me my life. Not if it saved yours." He took a step forward. Sam stepped forward at the same moment; John stopped. 

"And if I had, it would have been over." The room was swimming in Dean's field of vision, twisted and tipped sideways. "It wouldn't have happened."

"This isn't your fault," Sam said, bracing him, but Dean shrugged him off and looked at his father, at the tears now shining in his eyes, and through hate and resentment and heart-deep hurt, he said,

"This isn't about vengeance anymore, Dad. You wanted me to trade your life for a couple of bites and bruises that'll heal? That was what I was supposed to do? Trade your life so you didn't have to watch me suffer?" 

John shook his head, a vicious movement, and then he said, "Yes." 

Dean gritted his teeth and willed himself not to split in two. He looked up at his father, everything, _everything_ showing, and John took a tentative step forward. Beside Dean, Sam sucked in a tiny breath, his entire body tensed. But Dean was so fucking tired. The fight was flowing out of him. He blinked once and closed his eyes, and though he couldn't see it, he felt his father's presence draw nearer, and then John's hand was on Dean's head, his fingers in Dean's hair, stroking. It was for that moment just as it had been when Dean was small, before his mother died, before the entire world went to hell. 

"All these years. All the things I've done, all the creatures I've killed, and it was for nothing," John said. "If I could..." His voice broke. "I'd do anything to undo what I did to you."

Dean tried to say that it was too late the moment he was born, or maybe the moment Sam was born, but John chose that moment to slide his arms around his son. Dean jerked back, fighting warring impulses to shove him away and to let himself be comforted. He stood there a moment, waiting for the flood of recent memory to overtake him, but instead he was thrown back to his childhood, John carrying him through Sam's nursery, and Sam in his crib, smiling up at them. 

"It wasn't for nothing," Dean choked, and fisted his hands in his father's jacket. 

Sam's warm hand settled on Dean's shoulder, and stayed there, until Dean pulled away from John, still not quite able to look him in the eye. For a moment he thought John was going to hold on, and he pulled back harder, the need to get free sharp and strong within him. They stepped apart, Dean and Sam side by side, John opposite them. 

"Things change," Dean said, staring at the floor. Sam moved closer to him, until their shoulders touched. "You can't undo it."

Long, awkward silence, and then John said, "I know." In his voice, Dean heard echoes of how it had been when he was younger - when he'd thought his father was the one constant in the universe, the one safe thing he'd ever had, aside from Sam. It was his father who'd killed the things in the dark and taught him not to fear the darkness. 

Now it was his father who'd brought the darkness home. 

It wasn't his fault, but everything had been irrevocably changed, now. It was an irony Dean could appreciate; all he'd wanted was to have his family back, but they could never go back to the way things were before. 

"Dad. Maybe it'd be better if you..." Sam stopped, then crossed his arms over his chest, subtly edging in front of Dean. "Dean and I can stay here, do some research. See if there's a way to stop a demon from possessing a human permanently."

"I don't want to leave you here." John's voice was hoarse, and still Dean couldn't bring himself to look his father in the eye. "Not until I know you'll be all right."

"We're fine," Dean said, and then he did look up, directly into John's eyes, daring John to contradict him. 

John nodded, looked away. "You boys know I have to track that Colt down." 

Dean heard all the things his father didn't say; they had worked too closely for him not to know that this was about more than his mother now. More than decades-old revenge. He wished he could believe it would matter, in the end, but right now it didn't seem important, and something inside him pushed back against the cold deadness of that feeling. He needed to find something to hunt. 

Something he could make pay. 

Sam nudged him. "Dean? You okay with staying here a few more days?"

Dean had the itch to get back on the road, but the restless need to get away from John was easing. "Yeah," he said finally. "For a few days." 

"When I leave this house, I won't be coming back." John was already looking at the door. This, at least, they still had in common. 

"But you'll be here in the morning?" Dean asked quietly. 

John met his eyes, nodded. 

Sam was swaying in place, and Dean looked at his face. He swallowed hard and said, "You're supposed to be sleeping." 

"Uh-huh." Sam uncrossed his arms and hooked a finger hooked in Dean's collar. "I'm hungry," he said, and then he was pulling Dean backwards toward the kitchen, a not-so-subtle hint. 

Dean felt a pang of honest-to-goodness hunger of his own for the first time in days. He let Sam lead the way; he was getting used to it. It wasn't so bad. 

At the doorway, they paused, turning back. John was watching them, his face hard to read in the shadows. Sam glanced at Dean, and then at John. Waiting. Nowhere to go but forward; nothing to do but keep moving. 

The Winchesters were experts at finding their way through the dark. 

end  
August-October 2006

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is how it happened. I said to Barkley, hey, did you notice how the demon just walked right up and got into Dean’s personal space in Devil’s Trap? So where are the demon!John/Dean stories? And she said, I don’t know! Write one! And I said noooooooo, I can't write that! -- but it was too late; by then I had about 5,000 words. After that, it all spiraled out of control. *g*


End file.
